


Gamesmanship

by ishafel



Series: Sport of Queens [2]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: M/M, sport of queens
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-14
Updated: 2010-12-14
Packaged: 2017-10-13 16:24:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,680
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/139296
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ishafel/pseuds/ishafel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Coming out is the hardest part.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Gamesmanship

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Deutsch available: [TRANSLATION: Ein Notfall in der Familie (und andere Ablenkungsmanöver)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1135467) by [ishafel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ishafel/pseuds/ishafel), [Vaysh](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vaysh/pseuds/Vaysh)



Two years ago he might have gone to a dinner like this with Sergei, and the whole thing would have been foreplay, every lingering glance and slightest touch and whispered word. He might even have gone with Astoria, and enjoyed it, because despite everything the tabs said, they hadn't been entirely unhappy. A year ago there would have been Blaise, which had been awkward and strange at the best of times, but never boring.

Now-- ordinarily Pansy and Greg would have come, and spent the whole night drinking free champagne and eating all the rolls before Draco had a chance. But Greg had concussion, because apparently the Cannons' entire training strategy consisted of Bludgers to the face until something or someone gave. As Pan had stayed at home to play nurse, which was probably not as much fun as it sounded, Draco had had to fill the table last minute with a couple of Cannons' staff members.

He was bored, tired, and lonely, and after the first hour of desperate small talk he charmed his mobile to buzz frantically and then bolted for the Gents', where he slumped against the wall and considered Apparating home. He had to see these people in the morning-- but surely he could pretend he'd had a family emergency. “Be nice,” Pansy had said to him, inspecting his robes for creases before he finished dressing. “If you want this contract renewed, you're going to have to play by their rules. You aren't a star any longer, and you can't expect special treatment.”

Draco had just opened the estimate for the roof at Malfoy Manor, and was still in shock. But she was right, anyway. She was always right, that was the trouble with Pansy, she always knew when you were about to do something idiotic. If he'd listened to her about Serge, and later about Blaise, his marriage and reputation wouldn't be smoking ruins.

The door opened and someone came in. With the lightning fast reflexes that had made him the top Seeker in Europe, Draco got his mobile out and open and pretended to be sending a text. He might have sent one for real-- Dear Pan, send reinforcements, D.-- if he hadn't been too farsighted to type without his reading glasses and too vain to be seen in public with them.

It was hard, getting old, especially in a field where thirty-five was past it and forty was geriatric. He looked up from his mobile and accidentally caught the eye of the boy checking his hair in the mirror over the sink.

“Hullo,” the kid said, swinging around. “You're that quidditch player, aren't you? Sorry, I'm not really into the whole sport thing, far too much flying around trying to knock each other into the mud, and the uniforms--. Sorry. But you are, aren't you? Draco Malfoy?”

Wizarding Britain wasn't that big, and for a while, Draco had been the most popular player in the league. Being recognized wasn't new. “Yes,” he answered, resigned. Older people sometimes compared his style to Arcturus Black's. Younger people usually blamed him for the shitty British finish in the last World Cup-- like he'd have chosen the week before to tear his rotator cuff-- or, more recently, for the Cannons' lousy season.

But he was willing to bet this kid was no quidditch fan, and there were other reasons he'd been photographed lately.

“I read the interview you gave to the Prophet, when you came out. It was really--.” The kid stalled, maybe looking for a way to say, sad how it ruined your life, or sad that it took being outed in Witch Weekly to get you to admit publicly to something you've known since you were seventeen. “--inspirational. I mean, knowing how hard it is being a gay wizard, and the way your teammates stuck up for you, I was still in school when it happened but I don't know if I would have said anything to my dad, like, ever.”

Merlin on a stick, Draco thought, listening. Doesn't he ever stop for breath? He tried to guess which house this boy had been in. Not Slytherin, certainly. Gryffindor? Hufflepuff, maybe. He was too old for Scorpius to have known, him, but not by much. Not if he'd been at Hogwarts when Draco's oh-so-loyal management had leaked the story of his affair with Sergei to the press.

“...But you were always one of his favorite players, he said the way they blamed you for not being able to play in the World Cup was, like, totally unfair. And who a man screwed around with was his own business. I always thought Serge Ivanovitch's eyes were pretty close together, though.”

Now, finally, he paused for breath. “Thank you,” Draco said firmly and politely. “I'm glad things worked out for you.” Because he wasn't so old he didn't realize he was being flirted with, and this pretty, naïve child wasn't his type at all.

When the boy had finally gone, he let his head fall back against the tiles and sighed. If he took advantage of something like that, or even if he didn't and the story went to the tabs, even the Cannons wouldn't have him and he'd never get the roof paid off.

And then, like all Draco's worst nightmares coming true at once, the door to the end stall opened and Harry Potter came out, smirking horribly. “Fuck,” Draco said, with no inflection at all. There was no point in asking how much he'd heard.

“Yes, please,” Potter answered. He was absolutely plastered, Draco saw, and he'd put on a stone since his marriage ended. It actually rather suited him, which was unfortunate.

“I withdraw the offer.”

“Typical Slytherin, always going back on your word.” Without any warning at all, Potter lunged, pinning Draco against the wall.

Draco was lighter, but he was faster, fitter, and stronger. He twisted and got hold of Potter's wrists, and closed his fingers so that the bones ground together. Potter flinched and tried to pull back, and Draco held him where he was.

“You want a fuck?” he asked. “Maybe tonight is your lucky night after all.” He thought of Serge, who had left him without even a note, and Blaise who'd sold the pictures he'd promised were private. It wasn't hard to lean in and kiss straight, fat, Harry Potter, whose wife had left him for another man and who was so drunk his green eyes were crossed behind his glasses.

To his surprise, Potter kissed him back, with the sweet, fierce desperation of a man who has been telling himself the same story for years, and cannot make himself believe. Draco could guess how it went, knew the words by heart: I am not gay, I will not be gay, I cannot be gay. But a straight man wouldn't have melted against him. A straight man wouldn't kiss like he was coming home.

Potter was like a sailor who never thought he'd see port again, and finally Draco dropped his wrists and pulled his mouth away, feeling dizzy and short of breath. “Enough,” he said. “I don't fuck straight men.”

“That's not what I hear,” Potter muttered, wiping his mouth on his dress robes.

Draco drew on him before he thought, the desire to hex Potter through the floor so strong that it cut through his arousal. Instead he cast Alohomora; the last thing they needed for this was an audience.

“They weren't straight by the time I was finished with them,” and he kept his voice very even. There had been so many things Sergei hadn't been willing to do, because straight men didn't: go to dinner in private, stay the night, say the words I love you, even in Russian, even when there was no one to hear him but Draco. He'd pretended, at the time, that it didn't matter.

It had always mattered. From the first day Serge had smiled across the locker room, shy and awkward, Draco had loved him. But he'd only ever been a fuck to the other man, fun in the dark when no one else knew. When the story went public, Serge had flown back to Russia so quickly he'd practically splinched himself.

It hadn't kept his name out of the tabs, of course, and three months after he'd gone back to Vladivostock he'd been hit by a car and broken both legs so badly he'd never play pro quidditch again. On his worst days, his Death Eater days, Draco was glad. He wasn't happy, and no one else should be either.

“I'm not straight, either,” Potter said. “Christ, I've never told anyone that before.” He was crying a little, shaking, and Draco stared at him.

Twenty years ago he'd have made sure this was on the cover of every paper in wizarding Britain. Potter's best mate, Weasley, had been merciless once Draco'd come out. Draco practically owed him one. Potter's marriage was busted, but he could still lose his job and all of his friends-- and didn't he do something for the Ministry? A nice report of Potter soliciting sex and weeping in a men's room at a charity event for lost crups would probably do it.

Ten years ago he would have walked away. But the first person he'd told hadn't been Serge, or any of his friends, or even Malcolm, all those years ago at school. It hadn't been Uncle Severus, or his mother, who adored him unconditionally. Draco had got drunker than Potter was now, and he'd told his father. And cool, cynical Lucius Malfoy had held him afterward, and told him that it wasn't something to be ashamed of. If Dad could be kind--.

“You don't want to have this conversation in the toilets at a third-class hotel,” Draco said. “Come on. I'll see you home and make you coffee, and we can talk about it there.”

Potter smiled at him, and it was a nice smile. He was too drunk for Draco to fuck without feeling guilty, but he wouldn't always be.


End file.
